“I wanted the whole world or nothing.” Charles Bukowski. Post Office.
Also I hear the mountains spring on their way back. They look up and down brown-blue slides and in the weaver of water we have the H2O, the fish screech to taste cconsumption of water in order of merit and the water is in their tears. Wars over access to fresh water will be profound. Like Israel’s grab for the rivers of Jordan. I listen to the laplap lapping of the weedy Bollin and am no longer firstly or secondly. At night I speak, weep sadly with song, whiskey and my sadness gets so overwhelming that my heart slows. Arrhythmia the doctors say. DrinKing Water passes through eleven bodies before mine. That’s fine, by me. Water is peeled of impurity. My glasses are solid water. My feet draw patterns on the dry floor. Water becomes buttons to undress. Slip-shod shoes are polished up by water into patent leather wonders. A ticket for la bus is all you need to escape the smoke from cigarettes. Easily doused with water. Sweet grapes attract the palate. We must wait for significance to grow like a vine. Others sell flowers outside graveyards and can still muster a vote at election time, outside, a chapel of dark jerusalem vines.
InnerUrban 